Stoptime
by Apapazukamori
Summary: Every evening at eleven o’clock, he sets the alarm.


_This fic was kind of an experiment, but I got good feedback from a few people who read it, and so I thought I'd share it. Not too many warnings in this fic, just the massive amounts of ANGST. And having said that, enjoy!_

**Stoptime**

Every evening at eleven o'clock, he sets the alarm. 

Every morning, the bell rings at seven o'clock on the dot. 

He spends the time in between watching the hands slowly cycle from one to the other. Once in a while, he rubs his eyes in the darkened room, to keep them from getting blurry and dry. The time doesn't speed along, nor does it drag. It simply passes. 

These are his nights. Quiet, sleepless nights where he stares at the clock for hours and tries not to let any thoughts creep into his mind. Though he is tired, sleep will not come. It has not come since the day when steel crashed against steel, and the sun set on one little dragon, all alone with his view of the City. He is beginning to lose track of how long it has been. 

Sometimes he wonders if he would have nightmares if he did sleep, and if being awake was not somehow preferable anyway. He wonders if he will ever be able to find out. But these are the thoughts he does not want to dwell on long, for speculating on what might haunt him begets the resurgence of memories which are too painful, and are better left unremembered. 

Instead, he focuses on the clock. He knows it well by now, as it is his only constant companion. Even if he were to close his eyes, he can still see the antiqued hands as they strain in their gears, waiting for the needle-thin second-marker to make its rounds before ticking forward, one step closer to their unattainable goal. He has memorized the face, the curling black numbers set upon on the plain white circle. When the light comes in from the crack in the curtains, the glass reflects the glare, obscuring his view. It wanes and grows with the rising and setting of the moon and stars. 

This is what he thinks on, what he notices, while he sits awake in the dark. 

It is simpler to numb his mind to shades of black, white and silvery light. He no longer wants to see red, and amber makes him cry. 

Dawn brings his sedentary vigil to a close, birthing another phase, a new sunrise in a never-ending day. 

Today, he goes to school, and watches the clock on the wall during class. 

At eight o'clock in the morning, the starting bell rings. 

At four o' clock in the afternoon, they are dismissed. 

The teacher has stopped calling on him; she doesn't like him, but the Chairman refuses to allow her to force participation. She doesn't know why, but she wants to keep her job and so doesn't ask. His desk has been moved to the back of the room, though. Day after day, he watches the clock. Sometimes, he looks outside if it isn't too bright out. 

His classmates are afraid of him, this silent little ghost who haunts their days in his corner. They don't know when it was they last heard him speak; they barely recognize him as someone they used to know. They remember startling violet eyes before they dulled to a dark, painful bruise in a pale, sallow face. He used to be pretty, girlish even, and envied for delicate features that have whittled away to a skin-covered skeleton. Even the smallest uniform hangs off him. 

He comes to school because it is something to pass the time. The frightened whispers and dirty looks do not reach him, only the ticking of the clock is enough to grab and keep his attention. During lunch hour, the Chairman visits his corner, and makes him eat. It is all the older man can do for him. It is heartbreaking and depressing, coming here every day and trying to remain cheerful and talking at him about anything that has caught the man's interest that day. He does it out of gratitude, but leaves after only half an hour. 

It is still winter, and the days are shorter. The sun begins to sink below the horizon, turning the sky crimson and gold, and every shade of violet and blue. He never watches it. 

Today, he will go home early. Normally, he walks the grounds, slipping through the shadows as if one of them. But today, he got a glimpse of the sunset, and he wants to be inside. His break in routine leaves him idle. There are no more boxes of belongings to pack, no more doors to close and lock, no more memories to be filed away. It is too early to set his alarm. He sits behind the window in his bedroom, and looks out at a dying tree. 

At seven-thirty in the evening, he can no longer see the tree. The moon is dark tonight. 

At eleven o'clock, he hears the creak of his door, and he turns to watch it open. Though he is the only person in the house, he is not scared. He has nothing of value left to be stolen. 

From the dark of the hallway, he sees a figure emerge. Tall and broad-shouldered, with bare feet and a gentle smile. When he sees the color of the eyes that look down at him with so much love and sympathy, he starts to cry. 

Arms encircle him, draw him in to bleed tears into soft cotton cloth. In a cracked and whispered voice, he begs to be forgiven, only to be shushed with a gentle admonition. Deep in his heart, he knows this is real. This is not a dream, for one must sleep to dream, and sleep has abandoned him for so long. It is this truth he clings to, so he can believe in his absolution. 

The spirit wipes away his tears and kisses his forehead, speaking his name with no special emphasis, and with not malice but affection, the way he used to. The spirit tells him that he's late, and that _she_ will not stand to miss him for one more day. Neither of them will. 

The spirit lays him back on the bed, still holding him tightly, and pulling the covers up over them both. _Sleep, Kamui_, the spirit says. _The day is finally over._

Before drifting off, he forgets to set his alarm... 

And time stops 


End file.
